


Answers

by Chatote



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Chess, Childhood, Drugs, Hopkins - Freeform, John's letter, M/M, MI6, Memories, Pre-Slash to Slash, Scars, Sex, TD12, TFP fix-it, TRF, Twins, Water, agra, hounds, s4 fic-it, sherrinford, the skull fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chatote/pseuds/Chatote
Summary: A fic-it fanfic for S4. Follow TFP. The warnings might change.





	

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I've changed the title of the fic.

 

The steady beep of the cardiac monitor shouldn’t be upsetting Sherlock. It meant that John was alive, that he was still among them, clinging to life. But it also meant that nothing had changed since his third cardiac arrest, two days ago. Nothing new. John was still in coma and no one knew when — _if_ — he’d wake up. 

Sherlock collapsed in the hard chair, eyes closed. He had John’s left hand in his. It was areminder that he was still here, with Sherlock. His mind was racing with numbers and possibilities. What were the chances of survival after being shot in the heart? What were the sequels? What happened to John’s brain after third cardiac arrest? Those thoughts were keeping more important questions away. They didn’t matter right now. What mattered was John. 

The doctor was lying peacefully in his bed. He had heavy bags under his eyes and looked more tired than Sherlock had ever seen him. Tubes were coming from under the white sheets, some filled with blood, others with saline solutions. It was terrifying to see John like this. John, who had been shot in the heart. John, who had been so close to death… 

 

_Sherlock arrived at John’s therapist in panic. He was talking on his phone when he shot out of the cab. “An ambulance, Lestrade! Hurry up, John’s in danger! I’ve texted you the address. Now!“_

_The house was silent when Sherlock entered. Too silent. He took a step. A second. Still nothing._

_“John?“ he called carefully._

_A moan came from the living room. This sound made Sherlock loose all thoughts of precaution. John was hurt. His John was hurt. He rushed to his friend, ready to help, only to stop when the scene met his eyes._

_John was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. There shouldn’t be so much blood.It couldn’t be right. And John shouldn’t be so pale! He was even paler than Sherlock. The first shock passed, Sherlock kneeled beside him. He pushed on the bullet wound with his scarf like he had seen John do numerous times before, no taking care of the blood that was now wasting his clothes. The most urgent matter was to stop the haemorrhage._

_“John? John! Can you hear me?“ John’s eyes were closed and he didn’t seem to be aware of his surrounding, thought he looked in great pain. There was drops of swear on his forehead. “John?“ Sherlock repeated, whispering this time. John had to wake up. He had to. A tear fell on John’s torso. Sherlock touched his cheek, surprised. It was wet._

_“Sherlock?“ John moaned suddenly._

_“Yes! John! Stay with me. John. John!“ But John was drifting away again. His head rolled on the side. He was cold too. A shiver shook his body._

_“John…“ Sherlock could hear the sirens in the street now. “John… Please…“ John was still unresponsive. Sherlock patted his cheek, hoping for any kind of answer. He wasn’t trying to hold back his tears anymore. John’s pulse was weaker with every second. “Please, John. John. My John. I love you, John. Please.“_

 

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, taking Sherlock out of his memories. Someone pushed the door. He tensed instantly and took back his hand, ready to fight despite the two policemen who were guarding the room. He relaxed as soon as the umbrella entered his sight. 

‘Mycroft,’ he stated coldly. He didn’t have the time nor the envy to play games. His eyes fell back on John, searching for the rise and fall of his chest, the proof that he was still alive. 

‘Brother dear,’ Mycroft answered. ‘How’s the doctor today?’ Sherlock shrugged.

‘No change,’ he said as Mycroft took the chart that had been thrown on the small bedside table. Meaningless words like _‘Blood loss’_ and _‘Perforation’_ were written on it. Sherlock knew them by heart. 

‘I see…’ Mycroft whispered after reading the surgeon’s notes. Sherlock didn’t like it. He stared at his brother, waiting for him to continue. Mycroft put the chart back on the table but didn’t say anything. It was clear he wanted to though, and was waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge it. The silence stretched until the detective couldn’t take it anymore. 

‘What?’ he eventually barked.

‘You haven’t left this room for a week, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said. He was playing with his umbrella, a sign that he was in perfect control and knew things Sherlock didn’t. 

‘And?’

‘And people are getting worried,’ Mycroft said. Sherlock grunted but didn’t answer. He didn’t care what people thought. John needed him. Mycroft rose his eyebrows at his brother’s behaviour. Wordlessly, he walked to the only window of the room and opened the curtains abruptly, causing Sherlock to shield his eyes with a pained shout. 

‘As I said, you haven’t left this room for a week,’ Mycroft spoke again calmly. ‘You don’t look better than John right now.’ He had a good point. Sherlock could definitely use a shower and a few hours of sleep. Food too. Food would be nice for once.

‘He needs me,’ he said, despite his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to leave John when he was so vulnerable. 

‘Does he?’ Mycroft asked. ‘I was under the impression that the only thing he needed was rest.’ 

‘I’m not living,’ Sherlock repeated.Mycroft sighed. 

‘Don’t you want John to make a full recovery? What will he think if, when he wakes up, you’re in this state?’ Sherlock frowned. If John woke up to see Sherlock sleep deprived and malnourished, it wouldn’t be good at all. John had a tendency to worry far too much about Sherlock’s health.

He stood up. ‘You’re staying with him.’ Mycroft nodded. He knew his brother needed to know someone was here for his doctor. It was the only condition for his departure. 

Sherlock hurried up to Baker Street. The sooner it was done, the earlier he’d be back to the hospital. He hailed a taxi and was home not long after. 

‘Sherlock!’ Mrs. Hudson greeted him when he entered. ‘You look terrible, dear! And how’s John? Anything new?’

‘Nothing’, Sherlock muttered. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Every second spent here was a second away from John. Walking past Mrs. Hudson, he went straight to the flat, not even bothering to close the door behind him. 

First thing first, a shower. He let his clothes fall on the floor. There was still blood on them. John’s blood. The hot water washed the hospital’s smell away. It was… nice. Sherlock’s muscles relaxed one by one until he was almost incapable of staying on his feet. Tiredness caught up with him and his vision blurred for a second. His mind was blank for once. He couldn’t think about anything. 

He managed to get to his room with the wall’s help and fell on his bed. He felt… exhausted. The last time he had had a good night of sleep seemed to be ages ago. His eyelids were about to close, letting him slip into oblivion, when he caught a glimpse of the furthest corner of the room. and was alert instantly. 

His new hiding. No one had managed to find it yet. Maybe… Maybe he could… Just once… The mere thought of his seven percent solution running through his veins gave him goosebumps. His fist clenched. He had to resist. For John. He could do it. 

Sherlock took a deep, calming breath. He unclenched his fist, one finger after the other.He could do it. But now that the sleepiness from earlier had disappeared, he couldn’t stop thinking anymore. 

_“Please, John. John. My John. I love you, John. Please.“_

Why had he said that? He knew why. John was dying. He had panicked. But… Did he really meant it? Of course he did. Stupid question. He knew his heart had been stolen by John Watson for a few years now. Had John heard him? Sherlock’s heart raced at this possibility. Would he remember it? Hopefully not. John didn’t return those feelings. Oh, he loved Sherlock. That was for sure. Sherlock had had proves of that again and again. But he didn’t love him in that way. 

Sherlock didn’t know when he finally fell asleep, but the last words he thought about before loosing consciousness where full of silly hope and incommensurable sadness — _What if?_

* * *

 

Sherlock was woken up by his phone’s ringing just a few hours later. He jumped on his feet, the events of the previous days rushing through his mind. Catching his phone, he looked at the incoming call. Mycroft. His heart was jumping in his ribcage. It had to be a good new. If it wasn’t, Mycroft would never tell him like this. He’d be to afraid that Sherlock would go straight to drugs. It had to be a good new. Sherlock stuck the phone to his hear.

‘He’s awake.’ 

* * *

 

John was still in this strange state of being half-asleep half-awake when the door of the room 1895 slammed opened. The frame of a tall and slim man appeared behind it and John couldn’t help but smile when his consultive detective entered. 

‘John,’ Sherlock said as he sat next to John’s bed. He was smiling too. And his voice was warm and it was doing thing to John’s that really shouldn’t happen. But John was under a very strong analgesic, so he could be excused for this one. And if he was captured by Sherlock’s marvellous eyes, those green and blue mysterious eyes… Well, it wasn’t his fault. 

‘Sherlock,’ he answers nonetheless. His own voice was weak. From what his doctor had said — he had visited just after John had woken up — he had been in coma for the past week. A bullet through the heart. Three cardiac arrests. It was a miracle he was still alive. 

Mycroft coughed slightly from where he stood. John jumped. He had forgotten the other Holmes was here as well. ‘I’ll leave you two then,’ Mycroft said. ‘I have more… urgent matters to attend to. England needs me.’ John rolled his eyes at the overdramatic sentence but said nothing. Mycroft closed the door behind him. It was just him and Sherlock then. 

John let his head fall on the pillow and closed his eyes. He felt Sherlock shifting next to him. He probably had questions. Lots and lots of questions. But first, John needed to remember something. It was something crucial, he was sure of that. It had been bothering him since he’d woken up. It was here… Just here… But the white fog created by the drug wouldn’t clear. 

‘Rosie is with Mike, by the way,’ Sherlock said suddenly. John hummed, too concentrate on his thoughts to really understand. There was a name he had to remember. A name of… a place? A person? The person who had shot him! It was a woman. John was sure of it. There was a dream, too. 

‘John?’ Sherlock asked. John knew he was worried. Year of sharing a flat had given him the precious ability to see and hear Sherlock’s feelings and emotions. 

‘I made a strange dream with a… prison? On an island?’ he said. Maybe sharing his thoughts would help him. ‘There was you and… Mycroft. Yes, Mycroft was here. And Moriarty.’ Sherlock tensed at the name but John continued. ‘And there was someone else. A woman I think. Her name was… I think it was…’ His heart missed a beat when the memories finally surfaced. He had to take a deep breath to calm down.

‘John? Do you need anything?’ Sherlock asked again when the cardiac monitor displayed John’s distress.

John opened his eyes and met Sherlock’s worried face. He had to tell him and he knew Sherlock wasn’t going to take it well. But Eurus Holmes was a danger to both of them and there was no time to waste.

‘Sherlock, I need to talk to you. It’s about your sister.’

* * *

Sherlock was silent and it wasn’t a good sign. Well, discovering one had a secret sister would surely make one totally speechless. John was a bit relieved, though. At least, he hadn’t gone off to deal with it by himself when John couldn’t follow.

‘So, what are we going to do?’ he asked to break the silence that had followed his revelations. Sherlock was staring into the void but John could see his mind racing behind those eyes, already forming a plan, making deductions and linking facts together. 

‘Wait,’ Sherlock answered. ‘Until you’ve made a full recovery.’ A warm feeling hatched in John’s chest at those words. They were a team. They’d do it as they always did, together. 

‘And then?’ John enquired. The more he watched Sherlock, the more he could see the silent rage that was storming in this brilliant mind.

‘Then, the game is on.’ 


End file.
